


To Crave His Touch

by Goddess_of_the_Night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comforting John, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:06:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4662627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to come to terms with his increasing desire to touch John in any way he can.</p><p>"It is extremely frustrating at times to be a person whom others assume does not like to be touched, because the truth is that I actually rather enjoy it; it just needs to be at the right time, you see. If I were to be touched all of the time it would drive me crazy, but an occasional caress or touch? Well, from certain people I downright crave it.</p><p>Like John."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Her Words

**I hate this**

John looks at his phone when the message arrives and then glares at me before replying.

_They’re your friends, too_

I make a very quiet sound of disapproval of the terminology which he only hears because he’s right beside me.

**And whose fault is that?**

He snorts out a quiet laugh before discreetly patting my left leg beneath the table in consolation. The touch sends an unfamiliar sensation of warmth to my chest and I feel compelled to cover his hand with mine but fight it. Ridiculous.

“More wine, Sherlock?” John offers me with a sly smile as his hand moves from my leg.

“Please,” I reply with an overwhelming amount of false pleasantry, putting on a show of good-will for our guests – _friends_ – that we’re hosting for the apparently traditional Christmas gathering. I’d much rather be curled up in my chair, lost in my Mind Palace as John watches crap telly in front of the fire and no one else to bother us.

“More wine, Claire?” John offers his newest girlfriend whom he _of course_ had to invite along with Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly.

Every year it’s always the same group – and by every year I mean the three times we’ve done this – Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John’s Current Girlfriend/Wife, John, and me.

“No, thanks,” she tries to smile, but she gives me a subtle glare because John asked me first.

When he hands my glass back to me I make sure that our hands touch in the exchange - merely to prove that I can, that John will allow me to. He blushes slightly at the touch but doesn’t rush to remove his hand and I hide my triumphant smirk behind the rim of my glass as I take a drink, locking eyes with Claire challengingly.

Before she storms out of the flat at the end of the night, the last of the guests to leave, she yells directly to me: “You can have him!”

Neither John nor I are surprised by the proceedings except for her choice of parting words. I can have him? Like she thinks it’s just that easy – as though she’s the one who has the power to give him to me?

For one thing, while I came to terms with my feelings a while ago (most notably when he got married and the feelings of fear and jealousy nearly drowned me), he is the only person I consider to be a friend, and I can’t stomach the idea that I could lose him by trying to change what we have.

For a second thing, John is simply not interested in me in that way. And why would he be? It’s one thing to work and live with me, but something completely different to share literally everything for the rest of our lives. And if it can’t be the rest of our lives, that surely would ruin our friendship and we’re back to me losing him by trying to change our dynamic.

John has been staring intently at the closed door since Claire left a minute previous, a look of confusion on his face. He turns to me with a questioning gaze – not that he wants to ask me anything, but that he’s trying to figure something out.

The crease between his eyes nearly draws me to him as I long to ease my thumb over it to smooth it out.

I clench my jaw, angry that my desire to touch him in even the smallest of ways is growing stronger every day. I breathe deep, loud, in and out and then move to my room, closing the door on John and his sudden, ill-advised attempt to understand me.


	2. His Caress

It is extremely frustrating at times to be a person whom others assume does not like to be touched, because the truth is that I actually rather enjoy it; it just needs to be at the right time, you see. If I were to be touched all of the time it would drive me crazy, but an occasional caress or touch? Well, from certain people I downright crave it.

Like John. And with an unnerving frequency and veracity no less.

He has taken to coming up behind me and giving me a massage whenever I’m overly tense, sometimes before I even realize how tense I actually am. His ability to pinpoint my knots and break them up should be a crime.

Sometimes he’ll begin to massage my shoulders while I’m in my Mind Palace. I know this because my Mind Palace literally melts away and draws me back to him and those hands. I make sounds I’m not proud of as his fingers knead my neck and the base of my skull.

He always, _always_ slowly brings the massage to an end and leaves his hands resting on my shoulders for roughly 30 seconds before walking away. I always, _always_ bite back the urge to beg him to keep going.

Sometimes, I think I make myself tense on purpose to get his hands back on me. Which is ridiculous.


	3. My Lips

Admittedly, it wasn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done. And it may have been partially my fault.

“You pushed me to the ground!” He shouts defensively.

I perform a suffering sigh, “So you wouldn’t be hit in the head with a shoe.”

“Yeah, a _shoe_. I could have handled that!”

“I saved your life.”

“Saved my...” he starts incredulously and then laughs humorlessly,“You’re unbelievable.”

“How was I to know you’d trip over your own feet trying to get back up?”

“I didn’t...” he starts, but trails off while scowling down at his hands. His left is tenderly cradling his right where a bruise is forming on the palm at the base of his thumb.

It’s his face, really, that draws me to him like a magnet - it’s pained and upset and I don’t actually enjoy seeing it. Without even thinking about it first, I close the distance between us and grab both of his hands in mine gently. I bend at the waist to close most of the distance but do have to raise his hands to cover the rest. I place a light, quick kiss to the bruised area before letting go of his hands again.

“There,” I say as I straighten, still not completely certain where the urge came from, “I made it better.”

He looks at me with a stunned face, which is somehow better than the pained one from a minute ago.

“You know that doesn’t _actually_ heal things,” he stresses with a raised eyebrow.

“Everyone knows it does,” I insist off-handedly.

“As a doctor, I’m telling you it really doesn’t,” he smirks, unable to repress it anymore.

“As _your_ doctor, I’m telling you it really does.”

He laughs outright at that, and my lips twitch in a happy response to the change of demeanor, “God help me if you’re my doctor.”

“Everyone should be as lucky as you; I provide great care.”

“Must I remind you that you’re the one who pushed me to the ground and caused it?” He says again, though more amused than angry this time around.

“Oh for the love...” I begin in aggravation, taking a deep breath before repeating the entire argument over again from the top.


	4. My Uncertainty

If you were to ask anyone, one major thing they’d tell you is that I don’t cuddle. And you know what? They’d be right 9 times out of 10.

So why am I increasingly drawn to curl up next to John as he sits watching crap telly? Why do I find myself wanting to walk up to him as he makes a dinner I don’t want to eat and just wrap my arms around him...be close to him?

At times it is a literal pull and I find myself dragging my hand back as it reaches out for him without my conscious awareness. It is ridiculous and deplorable and frustrating how much I want to just be _near_ him.

He’s comforting in a way that I haven’t really experienced with many people. I know from his previous relationships that he likes to cuddle and hold hands and...I don’t normally go in for any of those things in excess. But for him? I can’t imagine ever growing weary of his touch.

But to him I don’t enjoy cuddling, and how do you explain to someone that, no, you don’t like to cuddle but very much would like to with them? More importantly: how do you do it without scaring away your only (real) friend?

That’s the biggest catch for me is that there are so few people that have ever stuck around and have accepted me for my oddities. A lot of people would find this very hard to believe, but I really don’t mean to be off-putting - it’s just how I come across.

So to jeopardize the best friendship I’ve had in a long time...well...I’m not certain that I can even bring myself to try.


	5. His Insight

People I work with regularly are conditioned to know when I’m in my Mind Palace. It’s not that hard of a skill to obtain, honestly, but nonetheless I’m still impressed that they’ve caught on. Somewhere along the way, however, they got it in to their heads that I can’t hear what’s going on around me while I’m in my Mind Palace, and that’s simply not true; mostly I just filter out the unimportant noise around me, but I’m still registering it on a base level.

So when I’m at a crime scene, thinking through the order of things with my back to John and Lestrade and hear them begin to talk about me, I return to the surface without changing anything else to tip them off to the fact that I’m listening.

I had just been about to work out who the killer was when they distracted me.

“So how are you and Joanna?” Lestrade asks.

“Good, yeah,” John replies without enthusiasm, “Just about to celebrate the 3 month mark.”

There’s some silence before Lestrade asks: “Then what are you doing with Sherlock?”

I inhale sharply through my nose at the question, my heart rate increasing.

John performs a solitary, humorless laugh and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes you do,” he says in an annoyed voice, “Why the touching and the staring? Why are you leading him on if things are so great with your girlfriend?”

“I am _not_ leading him on.”

“You _are_. I’ve known Sherlock for many years; you don’t know how different he’s been since you came around.”

“Greg...” he starts in a warning tone.

“Look, I’d be more than happy for the two of you. Truly. But God help me the annoying arse has endeared himself to me and I don’t want to see him get hurt, so either make a real move or stop giving him hope.”

John sighs and then practically hisses, “Look, even if I _would_ like something more with him, he doesn’t go in for those sorts of things. He’s married to his work.”

“But you _are_ his work.”

“No, dead bodies and locked-door mysteries are his work; I’m just the sidekick who tries to keep him in line.”

“Do you honestly not see that you’re his exception?” He asks with immense confusion.

“Exception to _what_?”

There’s a beat of silence where I can perfectly imagine Lestrade’s face scrunched up in annoyance and disbelief, “ _Everything_.”

I gasp and open my eyes, “It was the mother-in-law!”


	6. The Cure

I know I’m not perfect; no one is, of course. However, I feel especially disgusted by myself and my inability to solve my latest crime in time.

The parents came to me directly after talking to the police, wanting to make sure that their two children were found. I took the case and followed the leads, but it was difficult. Their abductor was an exceptionally bright man.

When I finally found them in an abandoned house in the country on the fifth day of the case, the man had already shot both children and then himself the day before.  
  
The parents said they didn’t blame me, but I’m a goddamn detective who knows how to read people. It was clear in their eyes, as they told me that they were glad they could at least bury them, that I let them down more than a little.

John didn’t come with me to the last meeting with the parents, and on my walk home I wish, more than anything, that he was here. The closer I get to Baker Street, the harder it is to breathe. I need to get to John before I lose it; he’s the only thing that can help. I imagine walking through the door and immediately burying my face in his neck, inhaling his comforting scent as he wraps his arms around me and makes it okay again.

I need him to make it okay, because I don’t know how.

My pace increases as the meltdown draws nearer. I had originally started walking thinking that the fresh air and time would do me good, but now I’m too close to catch a cab and too far from John as the world slowly disappears around me.

In a haze I realize I’ve made it back. I want to sprint up the stairs but my legs won’t allow me. When I walk in to the flat I see John sitting on the couch watching the telly, having just returned home from work.

I pause in the doorway, wanting - _needing_ \- to go to him but I don’t. He looks at me and his face, which started with a small smile, falls in to a look of confusion and concern.

“Sherlock, what happened?”

My mouth opens to answer him but nothing comes out, so I close it and swallow before trying again, but all that comes out is a shaky breath as my head shakes from side to side.

Finally the words come, “I couldn’t...” I swallow again as I stare at the floor, “I was too late and they want me to go to the funeral and I can’t. I can’t look at their faces - _any_ of their faces - because they are already burned in to my memory and I will never be able to unsee them.”

I am only marginally aware that John has stood from the couch and is approaching me as my speech comes to a close. I look up in to his eyes and see my pain reflected back at me. I cannot stop myself, even if I wanted to, from grabbing hold of him and finally burying my face in his neck as I’ve imagined since my journey home.

His arms wrap securely around me as I inhale his calming scent and he whispers soothing words in to my hair. It’s an embarrassing amount of time that passes before I realize that his hand is carding through my hair, massaging my scalp, and why is that so good? I melt further in to him and let the tears fall.

It’s unclear how long we stand like this, but I know - just as I know so many things - that he would stay here, just like this, for as long as I needed him to. And that, it finally clicks in my brain, is why I crave his touch above all others. He gives it selflessly and without judgement or expectation.

“You are brilliant and you did your best,” he assures me quietly, still holding me.

I shake my head, nudging my nose against the underside of the corner of his jaw.

“You did,” he stresses stronger, “no one expects you to be perfect.”

I move just enough to be able to be heard, but my words still come to rest on his neck, “Maybe not perfect, but they expect me to at least be adequate.”

John makes a small, frustrated sound in the back of his throat at that before pushing me away from him. He lifts my downturned face by placing his hand beneath my chin and looking me in the eye with an intense seriousness.

“You are more than adequate; do not ever settle for it. You can’t save everyone - it’s an unachievable goal - so don’t place that pressure upon yourself.”

“But these parents...” I start again with no real place to go.

“They are able to bury their children and have closure. They are honestly grateful for that much.”

“How? How is that enough for them?”

“It’s not enough,” he negates with a shake of his head, “But it’s better than the alternative.”

“How do you know?” I ask resentfully.

The look that crosses his face is haunted and I’m suddenly reminded of his life before me and the wound that brought him here. I regret my words immediately.

“Because I’ve been in your place,” he says matter-of-factly, “I’ve been the one who couldn’t save them and could only present the body - more times than I’d like to admit. I have no basis to truly understand why it’s better than nothing, I just know it to be true.”

My heart aches for him and for me at the same time. I need to kiss him to reassure the both of us that no matter our pasts, we are still worth loving. But I’ve never been more scared of something in my entire life.

“John,” I say his name as a plea for him to see and understand what we need. For him to take the leap for the both of us.

He does.

With every press of his lips to mine I feel him putting me back together one piece at a time, making me stronger, faster, better. Because in the end, I crave his touch because I am a mere shadow of myself when he is not touching me.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts on this via kudos, comments, or constructive criticism!
> 
> Thanks for taking the time to read it, and I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goddess-of-the-night04) for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


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